


the best he can

by Ryah_Ignis



Series: Season 14 Codas [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14x11 Coda, Heavy Angst, Hell Trauma, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: “What is wrong with you!” Cas shouts, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard him yell before, not really.“Cas, it’s the only way--”“That’s not what I’m talking about!”Cas stalks toward him again, murder in his eyes.  Dean thinks, briefly, that Billie sure as hell didn’t see this particular death coming.  Wonders if archangels can get killed by extraordinarily angry seraphs."14x11 fallout





	the best he can

The heavy scent of Winchester Surprise makes Sam wrinkle his nose as he walks back into the cabin, his shoulders drawn in and his head down.  Mary sets aside her laptop and the book she’s been translating in an effort to keep her mind off of the conversation going on only a few dozen yards away at the sound of his footsteps on the cozy hardwood.

“What the hell is that?” he asks, wiping a hand across his nose.

Mary’s heart twists, and it has nothing to do with the box in the shed.  It had surprised her enough that Dean had remembered it. Of course Sam has never even tasted it.

“The Last Supper, apparently,” she says.

God.  To think that he would have just shipped himself out without so much of a goodbye if she hadn’t realized what was going on--

Sam drops into the wooden chair next to hers.  He manages to knock the embroidered cushion--Mary would bet serious money that Donna had done it herself--to the floor rather than sit on it.

“He’s still going through with it?” Mary asks after a moment.

She knows perfectly well that nothing in the world can change a determined Winchester’s mind, but she can’t stop herself from asking.  As if, by putting the question out in the world, she invites the answer to change.

“He’s Dean,” says Sam, and that’s all the answer she needs.

Mary stands. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

She almost doesn’t expect Sam to follow her, but he does.  She scoops up the pan that held her son’s final meal and starts to scrub.  She knows from experience that Winchester Surprise takes several minutes of sweat before the first layer of dried meat even begins to crack, so she nods at Sam to take care of the rest of the dishes.

“He used to tell me what he’d do to Dean when he got there.”

His voice stays light, steady.  But it’s the slight waver on Dean’s name that gets Mary’s attention.  She scrubs out a particularly stubborn stain before trying to meet Sam’s eyes.  He stays focused on the cup in his hands. Mary doesn’t expect him to keep going, but he does.

“Lucifer, I mean,” Sam says, and the casual tone of his voice breaks Mary’s heart all over again. “The first hundred years--well, that’s how long he said it was, I didn’t really ever know--I believed Dean would find a way in.  He’s stubborn, you know? So I thought if anybody could, it would be him.”

Sam’s eyes have taken on a very distant, very old quality that makes Mary’s heart skip a beat. She distracts herself with another smudge on the pan.  Because while she can sometimes forget that both her boys are older than her, she can’t ever forget just how old their souls are.

“When he realized that that was how I was--I don’t know--preserving myself, that that belief was protecting me, he exploited it.  He’d tell me that he could close whatever entrance Dean made and trap him inside.”

The smudge is clean now, but Mary keeps wiping at it anyway.

“And then he’d tell me all the ways he’d make Dean hurt.  Somehow, it was worse than having it done to me.” At that, Sam cracks a smile  that sends chills down Mary’s spine. “Well, it would usually be a demonstration.  So I guess it hurt both ways.”

Mary wants to vomit, and it’s not just because of the smell of Winchester Surprise clogging the drain.  

“So the thought of him in a cage with an archangel--well.”

Surprising even herself, Mary drops the pan in the sink with a clang.  Sam jumps as she throws her arms around his neck, the soapy water dripping down into the collar of his coat.  Sam folds into the hug, and Mary pretends not to feel the tears dripping on to her shoulder.

* * *

The sound of Cas’s ridiculous, fuel-efficient car’s drivers’ side door slamming is the only warning Dean gets before the onslaught.

“What the hell, Dean!”

It’s only pure hunter instinct that allows Dean to dodge the punch that would have caught him directly in the eye socket.  He holds his hands up placatingly, only for Cas to grasp him by both shoulders and shove.  Dean pinwheels backwards.

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you!” Cas shouts, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard him yell before, not really.

“Cas, it’s the only way--”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

Cas stalks toward him again, murder in his eyes.  Dean thinks, briefly, that Billie sure as hell didn’t see this particular death coming.  Wonders if archangels can get killed by extraordinarily angry seraphs.

“Whoa!”

Cas turns his anger at the last second to one of the pumpkins that Mom had been shooting at earlier.  He punts it like a football, and the distance it travels would have been enough to get him a full ride with a Big Ten and into the Guiness Book of World Records to boot.

“You came here to die!” Cas shouts.

Dean knows better than to argue that, technically, there’s no dying involved in this big scheme of his.  In fact, it’s decidedly not-dying for a very, very long time. Instead, he just waits for Cas to finish.

“Do you have any idea what that would have done to Jack?” Cas spits, giving another pumpkin a fierce kick.

This one stays within the hundred yard range, which makes Dean think that it might be safe to say actual words soon.

“To Jody and the girls?”

Another pumpkin.

“You just walked away!  You didn’t say a word to any of us!” 

Finally, he’s out of pumpkins.  Cas’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to start swinging again.  Dean says a quick thank you to whoever the hell is listening anymore.

“What do I mean to you?” Cas says softly.

And it’s like all the fight drains out of him in that moment.  He’s just a deflated guy in a too-big trench coat with pumpkin guts on his dress shoes.

“What?” 

Cas glares, but it’s not the same rage as before.  Just exhausted, beat-up anger. “What do I mean to you, that you could leave without saying goodbye?”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again.  This is  _ not  _ how he wanted to have this conversation.

“You know why.”

The glare intensifies. “Enlighten me.”

He can’t do this to Cas, not now.

He’s never, ever deserved Dean’s love, because that love has poisoned everything it’s ever touched.  But now especially.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Dean says, without thinking, “that you’re not as important as you think you are?”

The hurt that flashes across Cas’s face stings like nothing ever has, but as Dean turns around to march back into the house, all he can think is that he’s done the best he can.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting :D


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